dancing.”
“Are you watching Miss Whitford? I see she’s positively destroying poor Worth’s feet. I’ve never seen her dance like that before.”
“Yes, the woman in the blue dress. That’s Miss Whitford?” Thomas pretended he didn’t know her.
“She’s to be my sister-in-law. Her sister is Lady Gresham, who is marrying Harry.”
“I see.” Thomas bit his lip as he saw Beatrix completely run into Worth. That had to have been painful for both of them. This couldn’t go on—she couldn’t keep hurting herself in an effort to dissuade him. “Perhaps it’s her partner.”
“I’ve never known Worth to be a bad dancer. In fact, he’s quite celebrated for the opposite. It’s why the patronesses at Almack’s love him so much.” North made a distasteful sound in his throat. “I’m so grateful that isn’t me.”
“I haven’t danced in ages,” Thomas said.
“Then maybe you should.” North leaned toward him and whispered, “I won’t tell.”
Thomas looked over at him. “I appreciate that. I would prefer to keep my presence quiet.”
North pressed his lips together and inclined his head toward Thomas before taking himself off. Thomas watched the dance conclude and took a deep breath.
He’d come here to dance, and he wasn’t leaving without doing so.
Chapter 8
“I’m so sorry,” Beatrix said, grimacing and then smiling as Worth offered her his arm at the conclusion of their dance. “I suppose I shall have to accept that I am not the best dancer. In fact, I think I suffer from dancing with someone so accomplished.”
Worth chuckled. “I don’t know about that, but please don’t concern yourself. Perhaps next time, we’ll just take a promenade. You’re a decent walker, aren’t you?”
Beatrix was surprised to find herself laughing. “Yes, I believe so. But let’s not curse me.” She quickly sobered. Perhaps she was already cursed.
She couldn’t stop thinking of what had happened in the library. What a tangle. She was so preoccupied that it hadn’t taken much effort to dance poorly.
Scanning the ballroom, she saw Selina standing with Harry. They were speaking with Harry’s parents, the earl and countess. Selina looked so happy.
Beatrix should tell her about Thomas, that he knew they were pretenders. But would it make any difference? Only if Thomas exposed them, and he’d said he wouldn’t.
She should alert Selina—and Rafe—to the fact that someone knew their secrets. Or at least some of them. That there were still things Thomas didn’t know made Beatrix feel queasy. It was another reason she needed to stop seeing him. And she would. She’d told him goodbye in the library.
That made her feel worse than queasy.
“What say you?”
Beatrix blinked and glanced over at Worth as they made their way off the dance floor. He’d clearly said something before the question, and she had absolutely no idea what it was. More troubling was the way he was looking at her—with unabashed delight and something else…anticipation maybe. She nearly blurted right then that she was his half sister.
Thankfully, however, she was saved by a tall, masked gentleman who stepped in their path. Tom.
He bowed to her and inclined his head toward Worth. Addressing Beatrix, Tom asked, “May I have the next dance?”
He was asking her to dance? She’d thought he left. She’d told him goodbye. She also knew that it was impolite to refuse a gentleman when he asked you to dance. And in this case, she didn’t want to refuse.
“It would be my pleasure.” She withdrew her hand from Worth’s sleeve. “Thank you, my lord.” Then she put her hand on Tom’s proffered arm and felt the connection all the way down to her knees, which turned to water.
As Tom led her back to the dance floor, she cast him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t leave.”
“I was going to, but then I saw you ‘dancing’ with Worth.”
She heard the sarcasm he infused in the word dancing and giggled. “I must appear the worst dancer here.”
“Perhaps, but I admit I wasn’t watching anyone else.” His confession did nothing to help the liquid state of her bones as he took her into his embrace. “It’s a waltz.”
“So it is. I haven’t waltzed with anyone yet. Unless you count that moment on your balcony.”
The connection between them seemed to sizzle, like a spark leaping from a fire to start a new conflagration.
“Do you have permission?” he asked silkily.
“Er, yes?” She looked up at him. “Who would give me permission?”
“Your father, but in the absence of one, perhaps your brother or your sister.” He looked over her head, and some of her enthusiasm at dancing with him evaporated.
“Are